The Thrill of Easter Past

While Scott was rubbing my feet tonight (an activity that could happen far more often, as far as I’m concerned) he reminded me of an Easter Egg decorating stint we had long before our children were born. Neither of us had bothered to boil eggs or even buy an egg-dying kit, but on the spur of the moment we felt the urge, so we made do with what we had. He blew the gunk out of the several eggs, leaving himself with a big headache. I pulled out my art markers and we started to draw.

We began with just stripes and polka dots, but I was feeling ambitious and set about rendering the Thriller album cover on one of the eggs. I remember feeling so proud at the time, and also spending a lot of time wondering how I could take this rare gift of mine and somehow turn it into a vocation.

We took pictures of our creations (black and white, because we were too cool for color back then) and they moved with us from apartment to apartment, house to house.

I’m astounded that it only took me 10 minutes to get my hands on this old picture. More astounded at some of the other photos I came across during my search: the portrait of Bob Dylan I made from refrigerator alphabet magnets; our old cat Xerox, as a kitten when he could fit inside Scott’s sneaker, then as the Jabba cat he became, barely able to fit inside a file box; the picto-journal my old roommate and I created of Gumby, before one of us (okay, me) accidentally hid him in the oven and he succumbed to a pre-heating meltdown. There were a few pictures of people I loved who died way too young. Pictures I’d forgotten I had. Those slowed me down.

It’s kind of crazy to sift through a batch of old photos like that. Chronicles of silly art projects and lots of mugging for the camera. Pictures that make you feel like you had way too much time on your hands. And then the other ones – of Carol and Ralph and Tom and Dad – that remind you in no uncertain terms, you don’t.

Happy Easter